Gay Partington Terry's Blog

There’s a song that’s been stuck in my head for a while. It’s a song about betrayal, sung by a dead man (and sometimes Willie Nelson). It’s not a song about a cheating lover; it’s a song about the betrayal of a friend. It tells the tale of a blatant, in-your-face sell-out, neither clever nor sneaky. Worse than an outright fight, more heartbreaking than angry insults, it’s a betrayal that destroys lives.
The song is set in a brightly-colored tropical country, a country of peasants with mind-your-own sorrows attitudes. There’s crime and virtue in the song and, of course, disappointment. There is heat and dust.
The one betrayed dies and becomes legend. The betrayer lives on in obscurity and regret.
The first time I was betrayed I was a fourth-grader. I never spoke to the offender again. I was angry and hurt, but it wasn’t hard to move on. I knew I could do without a friend like that.
Adult betrayals are not always so simple. Sometimes necessity overrides treachery. Sometimes affection gets in the way especially if the betrayer betrays themselves as well. Forgiveness is in order, though it may not be easy to forget.
Sometimes the betrayal overrides any chance of forgiveness. What are we to do when we're being betrayed at an unparalleled level of treachery by people in power? Confrontation does no good. Criticism has no effect. The devil has no shame.
Perhaps this epic double-cross can’t be sung…or perhaps it just hasn’t been sung yet. Perhaps there is someone out there who can sing the truth of it. To catch on, it will need a strong voice and a loud guitar. It will need an earthy base, a soulful drummer, and a honky tonk keyboard player so as not to frighten the innocent. It will need words like “dust” and “destiny.” It will need courage, dedication and sleepless nights. It might need horses.
There are some people voicing solemn refrains but often their voices fall flat, are discordant or masked by shrill duplicity. But time and determination have a way of airing treachery and sounding out revelation. Resonance is eminent.
Then for us to move on, cells with strong bars will be needed.

My American grandmother’s journal is tiny (3” X 2”), her writing small, mostly household accounts and a record of her work days. I have three of these. One is from the year I was born but there is no mention of my birth. For a woman who had six children and, by this time, nine or ten grandchildren, I suppose birth was a routine event.
It’s been repaired with ancient tape and filled with tiny writing chronicling much of one year in a life that lasted 103 years. There is, however, scrawled across the page of March 25-30th,
“Dad had stroke
age 43—
1924
died age 56, 1935”
The dates and ages don’t match but the numbers, originally written in pencil, are reinforced with pen. I take “dad” to be her husband as she was born in 1888 and I doubt her own father would have lived this long. 1888 was undoubtedly a lucky year for the Chinese because of the three 8’s. Alas, Gram was not Chinese and she was not lucky. Her ancestors came from cold northern European countries and she had a father so strict that she married at 18 to get out of the house. Women like her (poor, uneducated and guileless) had little recourse in those days. She raised six children on a tenant farm without modern conveniences, and baked bread to supplement their income. Her husband died when her three youngest children were still home and my mother, oldest of the three, had to quit school to help support the family.
On the page before (March 24-27), she wrote,
“Went to work Friday and resigned. drew my last pay. What a grand and glorious feeling—“
I believe this job was doing woman’s hair as she and my mother worked in a “beauty parlor” after her husband died and they had to leave the farm.
She didn’t stay retired, however. I remember her working until I was nearly a teenager. I thought it odd that she was a “companion to an old woman” as she herself was an old woman.
There’s a great deal of writing in the first part of the journal, work days recorded, men coming home from war (my father, neighbors, her youngest son), money loaned (mostly to Francis who is consistent in paying her back). There’s not much after March until the very end where she enters some addresses including “US Navy hospital, ward 14 in Portsmouth, VA.” Women are listed as Mrs…except for an Iris Davis (?).
Some of the days are only checked off (as in, got through it, on to the next).
I look for something revealing, shocking, inspiring. I find, “letter from Asa.” “7 dollars on food.” “Mrs. Worheim EM-9499.”
It’s my hope that we all find something revealing, shocking, and inspiring in 2019, and that we check off days only because they are the peaceful quiet ones that we savor for ourselves.

A few weeks ago the subject of Dark Matter came up in a conversation among people who are much more intelligent than I am. I admitted that I didn’t understand what Dark Matter is and, because they’re very kind people, they assured me that I shouldn’t worry because no one knows. (I’ve wormed my way into the company of these people in the hope that their genius and creativity will rub off on me. Results pending.)
This weekend I took two of my grandchildren to the planetarium to see the show “Dark Universe.” I was excited to learn what science knows of this mysterious Dark component. Landon, who is eight, was entranced. However, I sat next to Nola who is six and had many burning questions: “Is that really the sky?” “Can we go back to the American Doll store?” “What are we going to have for lunch?” She complained that her neck hurt, her brother woke her up by pulling her hair, and she didn’t want to eat any more of the chicken soup I’d made for their visit. So I missed a bit of the lecture.
What I did learn was that Neil DeGrasse Tyson can express the most shocking concepts with complete dispassion. Examples: It’s Dark Energy that holds the universe together even though we don’t know how or what it is. Scientists have mapped the stars despite the fact that that what they’re seeing is distorted by gravitational lenses. And the ultimate appalling fact: the universe is expanding in an increasingly rapid rate. (This is one thing I can actually feel as I find it harder and harder to keep up.)
Various maps were projected on the ceiling in order to illustrate the prominence of Dark Matter and our place in the universe. Nola was not impressed. She prefers the “map” that came with a box of chocolates given to me the day before, a map that explains what’s in the chocolates without actually having to bite into them. (ie. the square with a spiral imprint is white chocolate with spicy cinnamon ganache, not a Nola recommendation)
Simple conclusion: Dark Matter and Dark Energy may be what holds the universe together but dark chocolate is infinitely easier to understand. Nola is not a fan of darkness in general (with the exception of chocolate). She chooses to defuse it with whimsical nightlights. Her universe is expanding rapidly but so far she is enjoying the ride.
I may never understand the concepts Neil DeGrasse Tyson is trying to explain, nor the dark turn the world has taken lately, as displayed in the daily bombardment of disheartening events. But I’m pleased to report that there are people and chocolate to provide light and the occasional whimsey in my corner of the universe.

Last week I cleaned out two closets. This is a monumental accomplishment for me. It was perpetrated by the fact that we were away for most of the summer and unusually busy the rest. No time for Spring cleaning (not that I ever partook of this activity, cleaning is done on whim and windows of time). I was also inspired by a visit from my daughter, the most capable, organized woman I know. She juggles career, home, motherhood, and social life with ease. Well, I can’t imagine it’s with ease, but she manages—actually, she more than manages, she’s succeeds! Go figure. This innate talent for efficiency and control surely comes from a distant ancestor, as I’m certainly unworthy to take credit for it.
Nevertheless, motivated by her example, I dug into the horde that had collected in two closets, disposed of the useless and filled the trunk of the car with serviceable donations. Then I sat back in satisfaction—but not for long. Each day I’m forced to face a larger clothes closet in order to dress, stow clean clothing, remove and replace footwear. Also occupying this closet are my cloth shopping bags, past Halloween costumes, scarves, a safe, jewelry, makeup, assorted beads, tassels, clips and doodads that might come in handy someday…or not. Will a hatpin come in fashion in the future? Will I use the ten pairs of eyeglass frames I’ve taken from friends and family? Will grandchildren appreciate my Lone Ranger pocket watch? My Reddy Kilowatt earrings? My father’s Reddy Kilowatt tie clasp?
I have no idea of the value of the foreign currency from a dozen countries I’ve neglected to turn in after traveling, nor the jar of old coins. Who will appreciate my painted motorcycle jacket? Does holding on to my father’s wallet give me joy eighteen years after his death? Heck, yeah! The mini dress I saved from college in the 60’s—it still fits, though it can’t be worn outside in my dotage.
You see where I’m going with this…
A week’s gone by since my initial “surge to purge.” I open the doors of my two clean closets and my yet-to-be-cleaned closet, and stare but the fire is out. In an effort to motivate myself to finish the job (or, ok, evade the guilt of not finishing) I make a pilgrimage to a relevant site in my neighborhood, a monument to the dire effects of hoarding, Collyer Park, the site of the home of the infamous Collyer brothers ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collyer... ).
When I get home, I’m too tired to do any physical work, so in the course of looking up the story of the Collyers, I discover a site, with the same name, selling furniture. The irony frustrates me more and I retire to the sanctuary of Netflix.
I find contentment in the knowledge that my children (both) have surpassed me.
Maybe I’ll get around to that closet next week.
Anyone want to buy a motorcycle jacket?

I’m primarily an ice cream person, but occasionally my thoughts turn to pastry.
The women in my family (my mother and both grandmothers) were accomplished pie makers. My Manx grandmother baked with lard. As unhealthy as it is, folks went crazy for her creations, sweet pies and pastries as well as steak and kidney pie—a dish I never tasted as I lack the ability to digest meat. My personal favorite was Manx shortbread. Though I now possess two notebooks with recipes in her handwriting, as well as an ancient cookbook of hers, I found no recipe for Manx shortbread. The cookbook I inherited from her is “The Rumford Complete Cook Book.” It was originally published in 1908 and dedicated to Count Rumford who was “ennobled by the courts of Europe because of his pioneer discoveries in cooking” (in 1790 according to the book). The publisher of the book, Rumford Chemical Works, manufactured baking powder (since 1859) which is enthusiastically utilized in a many of the recipes in the book. A short introduction touts the importance of calcium and phosphates found in baking powder.
There’s a recipe for Scotch shortbread in Rumford but I didn’t remember grandmother’s having almonds in hers. The closest I’ve come to duplicating her shortbread is with another Scottish recipe. The directions call for a lot of butter (I use Irish), and entails kneading. Kneading for a period of ten minutes is more labor-intensive than it sounds. It’s best employed in resolving residual anger. Grandmother would be annoyed to learn that her shortbread was tainted by directions and ingredients taken from the Scots and Irish, cultures she considered inferior to the Manx.
I’m more openminded, not only in terms of pastry.
My other grandmother’s ancestors had been Americanized for generations. She was fond of apples. She baked with Crisco (also unhealthy). I favored her apple dumplings. She made them for me every time I saw her, and I ate them relentlessly.
I never saw a cookbook in her house.
This is my pastry confession: these days, as in childhood, I do not like the finished pastries as much as the uncooked dough. In fact, when I bake, I save dough in the freezer to eat at my leisure. I don’t use lard or Crisco, but the consumption of raw eggs in dough is hazardous, so they say. My mother was horrified when I stole dough to eat raw. It frightened her more than the possibility of putting an eye out, making faces that might freeze on my face, or having an accident while wearing ragged underwear.
I’m not generally one to court danger, but we have to give in to some temptations. What’s life without taking a chance now and again. I try to keep my consumption of raw dough outside the margin of stomach distress. Moderation is key, a harmless way of rolling the dice.
It hasn’t killed me yet.

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I will be live on Facebook, Monday June21, 2017, 11am est. Please join me.

My father was an unconditionally honest man, obsessive in his habits. My mother was a saint, helpful to everyone, never a harsh word. I’m an only child who aspired to be a badass, but I had no role-models.
I look terrible in black; not so much vampirish as weak, sickly, possibly contagious. My tattoo fantasies are shattered by the fact that I’m prone to keloids. I’ve never owned a gun. I get loopy on a second glass of wine and I’m too clumsy to wear sunglasses in the dark. When I speak loudly or too much, I lose my voice. I can’t eat red meat because, apparently, I’m deficient in an enzyme required to digest it. When I break rules, I hear my mother’s voice. I want to be Patti Smith but lack her style and talent. I admire Tom Hanks. (And Keith Richards—so there! ) My competitive instincts are deficient. I’ve been frightened by my husband’s old brown shoes, thinking they were an animal lying in wait.
My favorite tai chi teacher assumed I was a “second sister.” I’m not sure why I lack the outer poise and self-assurance of an only child. My parents did their best to assure me that I was clever and capable, but I never quite believed them.
However, once I chased down a purse-snatcher with no regard to what I might do when I caught him. (Luckily, others arrived to help.) I have spoken out, when I probably should have kept my mouth shut. I’ve stood my ground (quietly) in awkward situations. I’ve offended people I don’t like—on purpose. I’ve embarrassed myself in countless ways, married a boy everyone said was wrong for me, and have no regrets. Though I don’t think of myself as courageous and conduct myself unobtrusively, there is a line I will NOT cross or allow others to traverse in my presence. I do not tolerate bigots or bullies, but I don’t argue with them. I’ve learned that it doesn’t do any good, better to walk away, block, unfriend.
I’ll never be known for bravery or boldness and, alas, there is no glory in being a connoisseur of daydreams, a gifted flaner, cloud visionary, or adept wallflower. The impression I make is amiable, entirely reputable. But make no mistake, in my heart I’m bad to the depths of my tawdry illusions.

Postponed due to Jury duty. Stay tuned...

I'm doing a live FaceBook chat on Friday May 5th (2017) at 11 am est.